by Tarquin Hall
'Someone has overdosed again, sir?' asked Mr Joti, who had helped the detective with medical-related expertise in the past.
'Nothing like that, actually. My wife is after me to get my weight down.' Puri showed him the ZeroCal flyer. 'You've this product?' he asked.
Mr Joti immediately called out to nobody in particular, 'One box ZeroCal!'
A carton was placed on the counter by one of the shop assistants. It was already open. There were about twenty blister strips inside.
'How many pieces you want?' asked the pharmacist.
'Four only,' replied the detective.
Four strips were promptly extracted and slipped into a little brown paper bag.
'Take one with every meal, sir,' instructed Mr Joti. 'Anything else?'
'Buss.'
There was a party being held at the Gymkhana Club, the diamond wedding anniversary of a Parsi couple called Mr and Mrs Gaariwala. Delhi's elite were arriving in their chauffeur-driven sedans. The dress code was 'sober', a word that had come to mean tasteful in a country that increasingly delighted in bling. The women wore heavy silk saris and expensive but discreet jewellery; the men blazers and cravats. There was an air of self-satisfied urbanity about them.
Puri spotted the club secretary, Colonel P.V.S. Gill (Retd.), and his harridan of a wife standing under the portico in front of the main entrance and ordered Handbrake to drive on.
'Go round back!' he shouted in English as he ducked down in his seat.
Gill had been on at him to run background checks on some of the latest applicants for club membership and Puri couldn't spare the time. As for that terrible woman, she had been gunning for him again recently. This time it was his Sandown that was at issue: hats and caps, according to Mrs Colonel P.V.S. Gill (Retd.), were not to be worn inside the Gym. One evening last month, she'd ordered the detective to remove his offending headgear, and when he'd refused, a disciplinary committee had been assembled. The spirit of the code of conduct laid down by the 'Founding Fathers' was being violated, the old crow had claimed. But Puri had argued - successfully for now - that she was talking 'total nonsense only'. Members were at liberty to wear turbans or topis. Why couldn't he don a cap?
Only a naive fool would have considered the war won, however. Mrs Colonel P.V.S. Gill (Retd.) was like a Rottweiler. Her long-suffering husband had the teeth marks to prove it.
Puri took the back way into the club and reached the terrace bar without incident. 'Hearties apologies, Inspector sahib!' said Puri as he joined Inspector Jagat Prakash Singh, who had already claimed them a table.
They ordered a couple of Patiala pegs.
'So you mind telling me what all the Chief has been up to?' asked the detective as he settled into a comfortable armchair.
Singh looked uneasy. He leaned forward. 'Sir, if he knew I was sitting here with you discussing his case he'd have my badge.'
'Who is going to tell him, Inspector? Not you. Not I. And the barman is a mute. So why worry?'
'And what if I share some piece of evidence with you to which only he's privy, some salient detail, and it helps you solve the case? What then? He'll know it was me for sure.'
'Put it this way, Inspector sahib: no one is aware it was I who solved the tantric fraud case. Correct?' Puri didn't like to bring up past cases in which he had anonymously assisted Singh, but sometimes it was necessary to remind the inspector of what the detective called their 'mutual back scratching' arrangement. 'Point is,' continued the detective, 'many of the witnesses present were VVIPs and all. Such types won't speak with yours truly.'
Singh stared down into his glass. 'I printed off copies of the interviews and statements,' he said with a quiet reluctance. 'They're in the bag under the table.'
'Most kind of you, Inspector sahib.'
'Chief's taken statements from everyone who sat at the victim's table,' added the inspector.
'He's interviewed each and every one of them personally?'
'Some statements were submitted in written form - from the likes of the cabinet secretary, obviously. As for the Bollywood types, Chief talked to them by phone. All very cosy.'
'And the hotel staff?'
'They've been Bhatt's remit.'
Inspector Ravindra Bhatt was the Chief's lackey.
'One of the waiters is a charge-sheeter. Credit card fraud.'
'He's charging him, is it?'
'I would not be surprised,' replied Singh, who had nothing but contempt for his fellow officer.
Puri asked about Kamran Khan and was told he'd accompanied his father's body back to Pakistan in the afternoon.
'After he gave his statement, he was cleared to leave the country.'
The detective gave him a look of despair.
'You think he was involved?' asked Singh.
'Till date every person in that room is a suspect - even my dear Mummy-ji. So how can the son of the victim be allowed to leave the country, I ask you?'
'It's not that straightforward, sir. There's politics involved here - pressure from Islamabad.'
'Is there by God? Pressure from Islamabad? Then challo, never mind! No matter Pakistan is a terrorist-supporting state, occupying half Kashmir, wreaking havoc with Afghanistan, sharing nuclear secrets with likes of North Korea. Main thing is we should keep them happy. No boats should be rocked.'
'Sir, you've no argument with me. The fault lies with our politicians.' Singh drained his drink. 'Now if you'll excuse me, I should be getting home.'
Puri could see he was upset. 'Apologies, Inspector sahib!' he said. 'Didn't mean to get hot under the collar and all. Stay for another, haa. Have something to eat at least. I ordered one plate chilli cheese toast.'
'Didn't you tell me just last week that you had been put on a diet, sir?' asked Singh.
'Thank you for reminding me, Inspector sahib,' answered Puri, taking out the medicine he'd purchased earlier. 'Just I am planning to start it now, in fact.'
SEVEN
MUMMY NEEDED A cover story. And a suitable travelling companion. Someone with whom she could make the journey to the holy city of Haridwar, where she planned to continue her own investigation of the murder of Faheem Khan without raising the suspicion of her three sons. Someone who wasn't suspicious by nature and could be easily distracted.
Only one name fit the bill: Ritu Bawar, better known to everyone as Ritu Auntie.
Not the best traveller in the world, it had to be said - what with her bad hips, strict dietary requirements and highly superstitious nature. But she of all people had time on her hands. Her husband was no more (clogged arteries), her eldest son had emigrated (UAE) and her second son had someone else to cook for him (married off). She passed her days gossiping on the phone and from the balcony of her apartment, playing teen patti at the Punjabi Bagh Club, and badgering her young daughter-in-law for a grandson.
Still, persuading Ritu Auntie to travel so far was going to take some doing. Recently she'd baulked at going after dark to the Ananya Festival at Purana Qila - and that was only a few miles away.
Mummy sat in her bedroom in her house in Punjabi Bagh, where she lived with her eldest son, Bhupinder, mulling over the best strategy. Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.
'Mummy-ji? All OK?'
It was Jassu, her daughter-in-law. Mummy quickly hid the train timetable she'd been studying and her notes from the calls she'd made that afternoon to various friends and contacts in Delhi, Mumbai and Amritsar.
'Much better thank you, beta,' she said as she opened the door. 'Fever has totally vanished.'
'You should still take rest, Mummy-ji,' said Jassu. 'Must have been a terrible shock - seeing what you saw last night and all. I can't imagine. Bhuppie and I have been so worried! And you've hardly eaten all day. Only a little curd for lunch, no? I made khichri. You'll take some?'
'Some hunger is there. I'll be joining you shortly, na. Just I'll take bath. Ten minutes only is required.'
Jassu headed back downstairs to the kitchen and Mummy cl
osed the door.
Her daughter-in-law was right about one thing: the events at the Delhi Durbar Hotel had indeed come as a shock. A bigger shock than anyone could possibly know. Mummy had hardly slept last night, tossing and turning on her thin cotton mattress well into the early hours. The image of Faheem Khan's last moments - arms flailing, froth oozing from his mouth, his taut, terror-stricken expression - had played in a loop over and over again in her mind. She had experienced terrible flashbacks from the past as well. Painful memories she thought she had buried deep down for ever.
Finally, at around three o'clock, she'd woken from her tortured half-sleep with a cry and sat up in bed, tears rolling down her face. Jassu came running into the room to check on her, but Mummy sent her daughter-in-law back to bed. 'Just some bad dream was there, na.'
Rather than going back to sleep herself, however, she bundled herself in a chunky cardigan and sat down on the floor in front of the puja shrine and marigold-draped photograph of her late husband, Om Chander Puri, that occupied the centre section of her dressing table. She lit a few diyas and an incense stick and engrossed herself in the Gita.
An hour or so passed before Mummy found her mind calm and at peace, and began to meditate on her dilemma.
She was probably the only person in the world in a position to unravel this murder. Should she act upon what she knew? Surely it was too much of a coincidence that she should find herself at the scene of his murder after all these years.
Mummy did not believe in coincidences. Everything was connected in this life. Everything.
But what would her involvement achieve - assuming, that is, she could identify the killer? What was the point in dredging up the past?
At five-thirty, before the rest of the household had risen, Mummy tiptoed downstairs, slipped on her tennis shoes, and with her shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders and a woolly hat pulled down over her head, stepped out into the cold, misty dawn.
For an hour, she followed the pathway that circled the neighbourhood's tatty communal garden. Round and round she went, head bent in contemplation, the arguments for and against going back and forth in her head, until she came to a decision - a compromise of sorts. She would try to establish the identity of the murderer. Her natural curiosity demanded no less of her. And once she'd solved the mystery and confronted the individual in question, looked that person directly in the eye, then and only then would she make a decision as to whether to inform the police.
This meant that, for now at least, what she knew would have to remain a secret. Not even Chubby could be told. This was her case to solve. It had been from the start.
Besides, when it came to detective work, the great Vishwas Puri never listened to his Mummy-ji. What was it he had told her when he had found out she was dabbling in a bit of harmless matrimonial investigation for some of the neighbours? 'Detectives are not mummies?' Haa!
Let him make his own way - that is, assuming that he was investigating the murder. 'Eleven people will choose eleven routes.' That was the old saying - one of her aunt's, in fact.
Mummy had returned to the house at around six-thirty in the morning with a temperature. Unfortunately Jassu noticed and sent for that total duffer, Dr Mohan. He lost no time in prescribing a course of antibiotics and a sedative and confined her to her bed.
Mummy pretended to take the pills (in fact she flushed them down the toilet, opting instead for ground sunflower seed with honey) and slept a natural sleep until lunchtime.
She awoke feeling much better and started making her calls, the first being to her new friend Rajneesh, the assistant manager at the Durbar Hotel.
By early evening, Mummy had reached the conclusion that a trip to the holy city of Haridwar on the Ganges - to consult with the Pandas, the Brahmin genealogical record keepers - was vital to establish the identity of the murderer.
There was a Shatabdi express train leaving at six-thirty tomorrow morning from New Delhi station. Mummy already had a reservation for two but still needed an excuse for taking Ritu Auntie along.
Fortunately, the solution came to her while she was taking her bucket bath.
'So stupid of me!' she cursed. 'Why I didn't think of it before, na?'
Once dried and dressed, Mummy picked up her portable and found her friend's number among the hundreds stored in her electronic address book.
'Ritu? Yes, yes, quite all right. Now listen.'
But Ritu Auntie was upset: Mummy hadn't returned any of her calls in the past twenty-odd hours. She wanted to know every grisly detail about the murder. And then she wanted to know all about the page three types who'd attended the dinner - what they'd worn, how they'd behaved . . .
Only after Ritu Auntie's appetite for celebrity tittle-tattle had been fully sated was Mummy able to spin her web.
'Never mind all that, na,' she said. 'Something urgent is there. Last night, only, I was having one dream. So strange it was. Concerning yourself. And your dear late husband. His ashes are still lying with you, na?'
EIGHT
PURI'S MOBILE PHONE rang shortly after six the following morning.
'Chubby? Bhuppi this side. You're awake? Listen, yaar!'
It was his elder brother, sounding grumpy. Mummy's room was empty. She and Ritu Auntie had taken off together for Haridwar, he said.
The detective had been up until two in the morning reading all the witness statements and interviews provided by Inspector Singh. In the process, he'd downed a quarter of a bottle of Royal Challenge. This had not mixed well with the ZeroCal tablets and he had a pounding headache. It took him what felt like an age to register what he'd just been told. When the information finally reached the relevant synapses, he rolled over on to his back and groaned, 'By God.'
In the light cast by the digital clock, he could see that the heavy Indian quilt on Rumpi's single bed was turned back and it was empty. No doubt she'd risen at five, her normal hour, and was down in the kitchen drinking her morning glass of lemon water mixed with kala namak.
'Mummy discussed her plans with you, is it?' croaked the detective.
'Course not, yaar. I'd have given you SMS.'
'So how you came to know she's going to Haridwar?'
'I'm no detective but I can read. She left a voucher on the kitchen table.' By 'voucher' he meant a note.
'What time they departed exactly?' he asked.
'Five-thirty - must have been. Says they've gone to scatter Jagdish Uncle's ashes in Ganga.'
'Why so sudden, haa? No prior notice?'
'My question exactly.'
'You reached her?'
'Few minutes back. The train was already on the way. Lots of disturbance on line. Mummy claims they planned to go long time back.'
The detective let out a half-exasperated, half-resigned sigh followed by, 'What to do, Bhuppi?'
'Think we should order them home? I'm worried about Mummy.'
'Her health was much improved by the time I came last night, no? Fever over, buss.'
'She should rest, yaar.'
Bhupinder went on to describe how Mummy had again cried out in her sleep and how Jassu had found her sitting up in bed in tears.
'Sorry to hear that, Bhuppi, but it's to be expected,' said the detective. 'She was witness to a brutal murder, after all. During my long and distinguished career I've seen such a reaction many times over. Doubtless some fresh air will do her no end of good.' He paused. 'For peace of mind, I would ask a fellow in Haridwar to keep an eye or two on her. Make sure Mummy-ji and that Ritu Auntie stay out of trouble.'
'He'd better be bilkul number one, Chubby. So strong-headed she is.'
'Just look on bright side,' said Puri. 'You'll be having R and R over next few days, no? Why not enjoy? For every cloud there is silvery lining.'
The detective lay in bed, loath to get up from beneath the cosy covers, staring up at the damp marks on the ceiling left by last year's monsoon. There was something else bothering him apart from his headache - a 'brain itch' - and it had to do with Mummy.
Her reaction to Kamran Khan had been totally out of character. At the time, Puri had put her behaviour down to a natural animosity towards Pakistanis, one he felt keenly himself. Pakistan had long been India's enemy, after all. The two countries had fought three wars, four if you included the Kargil conflict of 1999. And although Mummy had never talked about her experiences during Partition and the murder of her brother, Anil (he'd always imagined that she was suffering from a kind of selective amnesia, and had long ago learned not to pry into her past), Puri knew that she'd been forced to flee from her childhood home and, along with millions of others, embark on a frightening, arduous journey to Delhi.
